Jeux de Tête
by clandestineintheclassroom
Summary: Leaving off from the scene at the end of Trou Normand. Inspired by the growing relationship between Dr. Hannibal Lecter and Abigail Hobbs and their interest in one another. I've rated it as M for future chapters, I'm willing to get into something more erotic, I however do want it to be believable.
1. Chapter 1

Such a gesture of compassion would have otherwise been unnatural for him, but when Abigail Hobbs turned to face him with tears in her eyes, his arms opened without conscious thought, beckoning her forward into him. Her lack of hesitation towards embracing Dr. Lecter surprised him just as his own invitation had.

His calculation of another's actions had been consistently accurate before his first encounter with Abigail. Such calculation had become his livelihood, not to mention that he himself had never before acted impulsively. Hannibal had always been careful, and put every action and their consequences into consideration before he acted. The act in which he had saved Abigail's life had been the first impulse he could recall in his adult life. His fascination with blood- its viscosity, its metal scent- would have inhibited his desire for any flow of blood to be stopped- but as it coursed from her veins, pooling on the floor around her at a fatal pace, he found his hands around her throat. At that moment, every fiber of him focused in an effort to stop the blood from leaving her body. Transfixed by his actions, he had stayed with Abigail, spending hours at the hospital where she recovered, contemplating what had made him act the way he did.

Abigail had since become a part of his life, and she had a way of turning the tables, and jeopardizing the control he intended to carry in every situation. And rather than aggravate him, Abigail only made Hannibal more fascinated in her, fueled by a desire to understand her- a desire he'd had for no one before. The fact he had recently been granted the opportunity to be her psychiatrist suited him well, as he felt in the time they spent, he would be able to grasp what she was and categorize her into an appropriate filing.

Abigail wrapped her arms around him, reaching across his upper back to put her hands on his shoulders. In the embrace, she strained on the tips of her toes to bring her own face closer to the level of his. Hannibal allowed her close contact, although his first instinct had been a need to push her back away from him. Recalling that day, he thought of how she had already blindsided him once, by exposing the body of Nicholas Boyle. The gesture of helping her hide his body had not been entirely selfless, yet Hannibal hadn't even considered the possibility of it being discovered, jeopardizing his own reputation. He was completely adept at disposing of a body, and had assumed without a doubt that Abigail would do her best to forget that night. Her actions had however deepened Hannibal's own discomfort because he was reminded that couldn't predict her behavior. Such a truth also emphasized the possibility that Abigail had helped her father in the murders he had committed.

But it was not her part in the murders that made Hannibal feel ill at ease- it was the fact that she was deceptive enough that he had to wonder about such a thing. "You've betrayed my trust," Hannibal had began that afternoon, as he stood in her quaint hospital room, back to her and facing a window. As he turned to face her, he examined and considered her reaction. She seemed nervous, her eyes never met his and her lower lip quivered ever so slightly. Gauging her reaction, he thought it best to leave his accusation at that, as the evening ahead included the company of Will Graham and an unsavorily predatory Freddie Lounds. Diagonal to him at the head of his dinner table, she had continued to seem nervous, and Hannibal could see her eyes dart back and forth from him and her plate.

The unwavering embrace had been the first real acknowledgement they had granted one another through the entire evening. Miss Lounds, however complimentary of Dr. Lecter's vegetarian cuisine, had not stayed for dessert, and Will had left moments before. As her grasp on him relaxed, Abigail descended back onto the heels of her feet, her blue eyes staring unabashedly from below into Hannibal's. Her eyes had the sheen of a tear just developing, not yet ready to pool at her lower lids. Her confession flowed from her mouth with hardly an insinuating prompt from Hannibal. "I had wondered when you were going to tell me," he allowed himself to embrace her again, and as he did he rested his chin upon her chestnut hair. "I'm a monster," Abigail continued. "No, I know what monsters are. You're a victim. And Will and I are going to take care of you." In an effort of consolation, he kept his face there upon her head for another moment. Without a thought of his unfamiliar proximity to her, Hannibal inhaled, suddenly intoxicated by a scent that could not have been bought and worn as it was not perfume, or shampoo, or the scent of clean laundry, it had to have been completely and naturally the scent Abigail.

The pleasure of the experience caused Hannibal to abruptly let go of her, and Abigail once again stared up at his face, as he turned from her and finished drying the wine glass that she had left on the island beside them. Abigail sighed and with a sudden heir of contentment, she stood beside him as he returned the glasses to their proper cabinet. "If you're going to take care of me…" Abigail started, and as Hannibal turned to address her, he couldn't help but smile slightly, still basking in a scent that suddenly seemed to be all around him. "…if you're going to take care of me, then I must assume you mean I can make myself at home here…"

"I would have hoped you already felt at home here if that's what you wanted, as my goal as a host is for you to enjoy yourself entirely." Hannibal assumed his answer to her question would suffice and turned to tidy the few remains of the dinner, yet Abigail persisted. "I see…but what I am asking is if I may make this my home?" Abigail's intention was made clear, and Hannibal smirked at such an idea. "I'm flattered, my dear but my intentions are in your best interest in saying that I really advise against any desire you might have to live here…with me." With no secrets between them then, at least secrets of Abigail's, Hannibal still pondered over the fact that Abigail could manage to turn the tables on him. How fast, and much like his, her mind must have operated, as though their moment of tenderness and honesty had been part of a plan in which she would ask such a question.

Abigail glanced across the countertop and walked over to grab the uncorked bottle of red wine, taking it and reaching to the cabinet where Hannibal had returned the wine glasses and grabbing not one, but two tumbler glasses. "I thought you didn't like wine?" Hannibal followed Abigail from the kitchen, back into the spotless dining room where she sat and poured herself the entire remains of the bottle. "I thought I didn't either…but I tried this and it's actually to die for." He pulled out the chair next to her and sat, watching her consume the wine like it was water and she was dying of thirst. "You don't know how to savor it, Abigail," Hannibal wasn't teasing, it sounded as if he was about to begin to lecture her on the art that is enjoying wine but he stopped mid-sentence to admire the redness coating and surrounding her full lips. An impulse, once again, caused him to reach out and wipe the wine from her lips, and as he did so, Abigail turned her mouth entirely on his extended thumb, sucking the red wine from the tip of it. Hannibal pulled back his hand, looking at it quickly before placing it on his lap. The girl must have had more than enough at dinner, he thought to himself. Before he could even speak, Abigail leaned towards him, and asked "you must have another bottle…I bet you have an entire cellar full of this, don't you?"

"Yes, but Abigail," Hannibal sighed, fully aware of the effects alcohol could have on a girl. "You've had more than enough and I need to bring you back to the hospital tonight, and we both need to be in their good graces if you ever want to leave there again."

"But I can leave anytime," Abigail protested, "and I've had a difficult day and I don't want to be alone." "We've all had a difficult day," Hannibal watched Abigail as she laid her head across her arm closest to him that was splayed across the table. He could tell that she was elated already and would fall asleep soon. He could avoid this argument with her if she entirely if she passed out on her own, and then he could put her in his car and take her to the hospital without any difficulty. "I'll get another bottle, just wait." When Hannibal from his pantry with a new bottle and a corkscrew, he sat beside Abigail once more, and with effortless fluidity and grace popped the cork from the bottle. He poured her a glass, eying the tumblers with a half smirk, and poured himself a glass as well. He raised the glass then, gesturing her to raise hers, "to trust," he said, and she repeated, "to trust."

Abigail sipped the wine a bit slower and peered up at Hannibal from the glass. "I don't see you as a father figure," she hesitated at first, but then continued, "I don't want another father, I don't think replacing my father did will make having a father seem any less vulgar to me." "I certainly don't want to be something to you that you don't want Abigail, so you have to tell me, what is the part you wish me to play? That is, if you want me in your life at all?" Hannibal replied. He motioned his glass in circles, and the crimson drink dancing around the rim before sipping. "I definitely want you in my life…but I'm hesitant as to what I want you for…"


	2. Chapter 2 (in progress)

II.

Abigail wasn't without some experience when it came to the effects of alcohol. It was true, as Hannibal had pointed out, that she did not like wine, at least she had not liked the kinds she had tried before. At her family dining table, wine was poured on special occasions like Thanksgiving and Christmas; her mother drank it without regard, as if it was a medicine or sedative to calm the tensions between herself and her husband. Her father always insisted on pouring Abigail a glass of her own, but she always let it sit, instead watching the bottle empty between the two of them. At Hannibal's dining room table, everything about wine was different. It wasn't just the taste, or the bottle, or even the way Hannibal stood to her side as he poured it. In that state she had gotten herself in at that very moment- pleasantly euphoric, sitting next to him, and not for the first time- she recalled to herself how Hannibal would stand so close to her when he poured that wine into her glass. She would suddenly, as if by instinct, become hyper-aware of her own vital functions. She would hold her breath and feel her heartbeat thudding in her ears, and each second extended into an intense moment. She could have sworn she felt his eyes on her once, felt them as if a stare that started from the crook of her neck and ended at her lap, could be felt like a caress.

The wine was different to her because it was given by him. The aroma was fruitful, and it tasted sweet and full rather than bitter. The way Hannibal presented everything was an extension of how he presented himself. He was inexcusably attractive, but not in a way she had ever seen before in another man. To distract herself from the experiences she had recently encountered, she often spent ponderous hours trying to understand what it was about him. The combination of his eyes, his facial structure and his stature was almost unearthly. He was like a character from classic literature, or one of her history textbooks- there were no words in the English language that could justifiably describe him come to think of it. Debonair, for instance, he was debonair.

She had already admitted one truth to Hannibal that evening. The truth that she hadn't been able to even admit to herself: he had coaxed the words from her, as if he already knew, and as if he didn't mind. It hadn't been out of shame or disgust that Abigail had denied such a truth to herself- in fact, conscience hadn't played a part in her silence at all. It was the fact that Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter were now the only two people she had in life, and if they had considered her to be innocent, she needed that to be the truth.

Hannibal poured her another glass, and she wondered to herself at that point what his intentions were to encourage her in such a state. "Abigail, you can tell me whatever it is that you feel you want to tell me, is it a confidant that you desire? Nothing you say will leave this room- that is my promise to you. As I told you, I will protect you." Abigail smirked at his word choice, "what I desire…" she began, mimicking his accent and timbre with ironic accuracy, "what I desire, what I feel...is that I don't want another father, and I don't want another psychiatrist."

Hannibal hadn't known what her alcohol tolerance was like- he had it in his mind that by her third glass, she'd be ready to pass out. He'd eyed his watch at one point and as the dinner had began late, it was already past midnight- his window of opportunity in which he could return Abigail to the hospital without garnering attention was near past. Abigail was alert, although her demeanor towards Hannibal since he'd allowed her to embrace him had changed. She'd always been flirtatious towards him, and he allowed that, perhaps encouraged it to a certain extent. She suddenly stood from where she was seated, holding the glass in one hand and reaching to him with the other. "How many times Hannibal, have I been to your house now?" she smirked, and before he could answer she continued, "You haven't been kind enough to show me outside of your dining room and your kitchen."

Hannibal looked down to find his hand holding hers, and she was tracing her index finger in his palm before she stepped back, urging him to stand. "What I want from you right now is to take me on a tour of this home of yours that it's in 'my best interest' not to live in." Unable to argue, and with the hope the flow of blood would allow the alcohol to circulate through her veins if she walked around, he stood up in front of her. Once again, Abigail was there right, so very near to him, her head was just at his chest level and she was staring through her eyelashes back up at him.


End file.
